The desert night was ink-black, the stars sharp as glass. You sat on the sand, shivering in the chill. Jack had built a small fire, its glow cutting a circle of light against the endless dark. He was pacing around it, script in one hand, cigarette in the other, grinning like a man at the edge of revelation.

“See, this is it, sister. This is cinema. Right here. None of that Hollywood fakery. You and me, out in the raw. Desert for a set, moonlight for a spotlight. Real fear, real sweat.” He stopped, pointing the cigarette at you like a director with a baton. “And you — you’re the muse. Every director needs one.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to be—”

He cut you off with a laugh, sharp and sudden. “Want’s got nothin’ to do with it. You already are. Look at you — the way the fire paints your face, that scared little tremor in your hands. It’s perfect. Audiences’ll eat it up.”

He crouched down across from you, the script dangling loosely from his fingers. “You ever hear about Fellini? Kubrick? They had muses. Women who brought out the genius in ’em. That’s what you are for me. My star.” He smirked, leaning closer. “Lucky you, sister.”

You hugged your arms around yourself. “And if I refuse?”

Jack’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. “Then the picture ends early. Fade to black. No applause.” He tapped the script against his knee. “But I like long stories. The build-up. The suspense. You keep playin’ along, maybe we both get an ending worth rememberin’.”

He stood again, circling the fire like a restless animal. “Picture this: the drifter, alone in the desert, meets a stranger. A woman, tired, afraid, but strong. He sees himself in her. He chases her, teases her, shapes her. She hates him, but she can’t look away. That’s not just a story, sister. That’s truth. That’s art.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “This is your story. Not mine.”

Jack stopped, smiling slyly. “No, it’s ours. Can’t make a movie with one actor. Even Shakespeare knew that. You give me conflict, you give me heart. Without you, I’m just a man talking to himself. With you—” He spread his arms wide to the sky. “With you, I’m a goddamn director.”

He pulled a battered flask from his pocket, took a swig, then tossed it down beside you. “Drink. Loosen up. We’re rehearsing.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” His voice cut like steel. Then, softer, coaxing: “Come on, sister. Give me a line. Page twenty-three. The campfire scene.”

Your fingers shook as you unfolded the crumpled pages he shoved into your hands. The words blurred in the firelight, but you forced them out: ‘Why are you following me?’

Jack grinned, clapping once, delighted. He dropped into a crouch across the fire, eyes locked on yours, reciting his line as though he’d lived it a thousand times: ‘Because you can’t run from yourself. And I’m the part of you you don’t wanna see.’

Your voice broke. “Stop this.”

“Don’t break character!” Jack snapped, then immediately softened, smiling like a coach encouraging a player. “See? That’s the beauty. You’re raw. Real. You can’t fake that kind of fear. That’s why you’re my muse, sister.”

He leaned back, sighing contentedly, as though the scene had gone exactly how he wanted. “When they make this picture, you’ll thank me. You’ll be immortal. Faces on billboards, names in lights. And me? I’ll be the man who showed the world what you really are.”

You dropped the pages into the dirt. “And what’s that?”

Jack bent forward, picked them up carefully, brushing sand from the words. “A survivor,” he said finally. His eyes gleamed with something fierce, almost tender. “But survival ain’t free. It costs. And I’m the one writing the bill.”

The fire popped, sending sparks into the night. Jack stood, folding the script under his arm. His shadow stretched long and jagged across the sand.

“Get some rest, sister. Tomorrow we shoot the chase scene.”

He winked, then vanished into the dark, leaving you by the fire with his words heavy in your chest.